The Two Sided Mask
by pseudonym222
Summary: Under a popular opera house sleeps a monster of the worst or best? kind: The Phantom. Too bad Bella stepped on its tail. Now, while struggling to subdue the terror she has unleashed, Bella must choose between love, fame, and a life worth living.


_A/N Tell me if you like it, tell me if you don't. Either way, be gentle. _

_I do not own Twilight or the Phantom of the Opera._

**Prologue/Chapter 1**

I had lived in the opera house for five years before it began, but here was no way of knowing how long he had haunted these embellished corridors, or how long he'd been alone, listening to the echoes of living people.

During the day, the air in Paris' finest opera house buzzed and vibrated with constant activity. Notes clashed above her occupants, not harmoniously, but never unpleasantly either; instructors screeched while ballerinas scrambled, pounding the protesting floorboards; maids rushed to the assistance of the wailing primadonna, appeasing her and spraying her musky perfume into the already occupied atmosphere; children whispered and laughed, stage-animals whined, the maids and menservants followed behind, cleaning, scolding, and gossiping in turns.

Everyone had something to do during the day. Backstage, a steady thrum of panic pushed the opera house to practice, practice, practice, and get it perfect before the patrons arrived. Breaks were meant for the rich or the weak-willed, neither of which were abundant here.

There was magic in the painful process to create beauty; there was beauty in the devotion on the faces of my coworkers; and there was a determined fire within me to outshine them all.

During the night, though, it all stopped. The clamor ceased, the drama was put on hold, and even the ponderings of my mind were quieted. The only audible sound were the slow breathing of my exhausted roommates and the sleepy city outside.

Without a second thought, I would slip from under my sheets to walk the familiar halls, dancing and humming and smiling as if I were one of the cherubs on the ceiling above.

It was a glorious building. The first time I had walked through the door, I thought Madame Weber had mistakenly taken us to the Palace of Versailles. Blood red, glass-like tiles, echoed under my toes, and elegant, golden statues beckoned to me with outstretched arms and blank eyes. A broad sweeping staircase and slim marble columns supported the painted ceiling, and the ceiling was the gate to heaven itself.

But the lobby couldn't begin to compare with the auditorium – not when the chandelier was perched above, casting light and rainbows into the eyes of her gaping admirers. She would twinkle and wink coquettishly, so emblazoning the hall with her confidant, intricate beauty that I had often wondered if she was a fallen star.

But after hours, when her candles were snuffed, and when sunlight didn't peek at her through the windows, the chandelier hung forlornly, obscured by blackness.

I rarely went there after curfew. The darkness transformed the room into an eerie ghost of its daytime self. The acoustics, meant to amplify, merely pushed normally unnoticed sounds to the forefront of the silence. _Drip, drip:_ a leaky pipe. _Creeeak_: a floorboard. _Tock, tock, tock: _the grandfather clock.

No matter their origin: backstage, the room next door, the lobby, _drip, creeeak, tock,_ whispered in my ear, as if the building herself urged me to hide.

And for five years, I listened. But on that night that changed everything, everything about the room was different.

The heavy, silk curtains hung open, and the moon shone brightly, reflecting blue-white light off the glassy facets of the chandelier. She sat like a queen in the moonlit room, her reflections dancing lazily across the empty seats and golden statues. Serene, peaceful.

I could taste the magic lingering in the air. I could smell the rain baptizing the house – washing away the guilt and dirt, and revealing a glittering fairyland. If I listened carefully, I could hear the far off twinkling of the stars, watching me like the eyes of an audience waiting for a performance to begin.

I capered to center stage, enveloping myself in the majesty of the throne room. The room glowed gently, illuminating the painted faces of the heavenly host above me, and the blood-red carpet below.

Unceremoniously, I closed my eyes and sang _Tornami a vagheggiar _(an aria from the opera we were performing at the time). My voice was soft and unpolished, but I wasn't a child anymore, and the notes rang freely and with a sense of maturity I didn't feel.

When I was done, I stood there for a few minutes, blinking. Then I bowed to my audience and curtsied to the queen, laughing as I threw kisses out into the room.

I would have stayed there all night, basking in counterfeit admiration, had not the sound of a rusty door hinge alerted me to unwanted attention. I fled to bed with my heart still pounding excitedly, and slept, undisturbed by nightmares for the last time in the foreseeable future.

The next day, Monsieur Greene, looking weary and shaken, informed me that, in addition to my normal ballet regime, I was to begin training one-on-one with the vocal instructor.

**CHAPTER 1**

Three years later another, a less subtle change came about: the _Théâtre National de l'Opéra _was changing hands.

Without much notice, Monsieur Greene, the owner, announced that he had sold the opera house to Messieurs Newton and Lee, two of the most pompous men I've ever seen.

I had liked Monsieur Greene. Even though he couldn't command much respect, he knew how to run an opera house and keep things in order. He was soft-spoken and elderly, but somehow I never thought he'd retire.

As I glanced at the new managers who were leering at the ballerinas, I was ready to beg Monsieur Greene to stay. Messieurs Newton and Lee fiercely reminded me of Rosalie Hale, our primadonna: arrogant, vain, and selfish.

Between the three of them, they had enough jewelry to sink a ship and enough cloth to pave the Silk Road, but no idea how to direct an opera.

Apparently others were thinking along the same lines, because everyone had gathered around Monsieur Greene.

"Monsieur, please don't leave us," they all said in their own way. Some cajoled, others cried, many used age-old, half-concealed threats. All were worried for their own future and for the future of the Opera

Monsieur Greene had no backbone, and was often laid flat on the porch as a welcome mat, but for the first time since coming here, he squared his shoulders and walked away (albeit with tears running down his cheeks), leaving us with two pairs of ogling eyes, and one unhappy diva.

"Leaving us with them," Rosalie muttered indignantly. "_Idiota,_"

It was easy to tell when Rosalie was going into a rage. Her lovely face grew red, her eyes went wide, and she began muttering in Italian.

Rosalie wasn't Italian – in fact, she was very French – but she had studied under an Italian master for years, and liked to show it off anyway she could.

Rosalie spat toward the doorway and turned toward Madame Weber. "Signora, did you tell them how it works?"

Madame Weber turned to the two gentlemen and explained in no ambiguous terms that they were to comply with Rosalie's wishes or lose their leading lady and her extensive fan base.

"I almost feel bad for them," I whispered to Angela Weber, a fellow chorus girl, ballerina, and my pseudo-sister.

"Me too. Look at their faces," she giggled as the three began arguing loudly, "They can't decide if she an angel or a demon."

"She's both," I informed her Angela.

Even as her face reddened and contorted with anger, Rosalie Hale was breathtaking. One glance at her and a man would willingly give his life to her. When she strolled down the street, breath stopped. When she was under the light of the chandelier, hearts stopped. She seemed ethereal on stage. She glittered like Tatiana, casting her enchantment on the viewers - her newly devoted disciples.

But the people who knew her detested her. She was demanding, disrespectful, and even vulgar at times. She was like an obstinate child who needed a good lesson in manners.

Angela believed Rosalie was unbearably lonely, but if that were the case, why did she spurn every attempt at a friendship that didn't involve a mirror?

Angela was more of a woman at fifteen, than Rosalie was at twenty-five.

"We'd better get out of here before she blows," Angela said, tugging on my arm, leading me away from the shrieking diva and the two spluttering men.

We walked up the stairs, and down the winding path leading to the room in which the girls at the bottom of the food chain were stuffed. Plain beds with white sheets lined the room wall to wall, stained with the setting sun filtering through flimsy curtains.

Bree, a cute girl with a clear voice and light feet, was busily darning some pink stockings when we came in, but dropped it immediately when she saw us.

"Angela! Bella! Did you hear?" She asked, obviously bursting to tell someone whatever news she had heard.

"About the new managers?" Angela asked, squinting around for her spectacles.

"No. Well, kind of. Messieurs Lee and Newton are bringing an American here."

"How do you know?" I asked. Bree was a renowned gossip, and her facts were skewed more often than not.

"I was with Madame Weber when she gave them the tour. Monsieur Newton wanted to know if there was a spare room."

"And this is why you're so excited?" I asked skeptically.

"It is," she said happily, "because this man is filthy rich! He could buy the Eiffel Tower on a whim."

"You're exaggerating," I said, moving to help Angela find her specs. "Besides, we have plenty of puffed-up old men to deal with already."

"That's what you think," Bree sang mockingly. "He's not a day over twenty, I'd wager. And _unmarried."_

"Ah-ha!" I cried, coming out from under the bed with Angela's dusty eyewear and handing them to her.

Bree pouted. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes," I said, "and if he's not an old man, then he's a thief. How did he come into his money, anyway?"

Bree paused, her brow furrowed, trying hard to remember something she didn't know.

"_I'd _wager he robbed a hundred coaches for the money, and another two hundred just for the fun of it." Bree's eyes widened as I spoke, and I could see her imagination reeling.

"Don't listen to her, Bree," Angela said disapprovingly. "It's not true."

"Oh, but it _is_ true," I said, swinging my hairbrush like a sword. "A swashbuckling brute."

"Or a sharp shooting bandit!" Bree exclaimed, jumping onto her bed and shooting Angela dead with her fingers. "Pow! Pow!"

Bree and I were laughing, but I could tell Angela was not happy. She thought we bullied Bree too much.

"Quiet down, Bree," Angela said with irritation. "My mother would never let a criminal into the Opera. He probably came into an inheritance, or something of the sort. He didn't rob coaches for money."

"Why are you protecting him?" Bree asked suspiciously. "Are you in love with him?"

"What? No!"

Bree clapped her hands giddily. "You are! You are!"

"No, I'm not," Angela protested. "Bella's been lying to you."

"How did you meet?" Bree asked incredulously. "You're such a hermit."

"He's blackmailing her," I said, saving Angela from further embarrassment. Her face was so hot, that her spectacles were steaming up. "He's threatened to kill Madame Weber. Please don't tell."

Bree gasped and clasped Angela's hands in her own. "Don't worry, Angela," she said earnestly, "I won't tell a _soul_."

Neither of us believed her.

She patted Angela comfortingly on the shoulder, and ran out the door, most likely to go spread the gossip.

"Why do you encourage her?" Angela asked with great exasperation as the door swung shut.

"Because it's amusing," I admitted, "and harmless. No one believes her."

"Bree believes herself," Angela countered.

"No she doesn't," I said. "She just likes the stories."

"Bree believes herself," Angela asserted again, "and it will get her into trouble someday."

Was Angela right? Probably, but Bree's imagination was what made her Bree. Out of everyone, she was the most creative in the dance studio, and was the one who told the best and wildest stories. Being able to join in made the world seem lighter, less like reality.

"Do you think we really have a new sponsor?" I asked, not so subtly changing the subject.

Angela nodded. "How else could the Messieurs have afforded the_ Théâtre National de l'Opéra_?"

"I wonder what they'll buy first," I said, lying back on my pillow. "I hope they get a chocolate fountain like the one Madame Bazen brought to the ball two years ago."

"I know what they bought," Angela said. "The horse Rosalie wanted."

"The one with brown spots and a white nose?"

"That's the one."

"What's wrong with the other two mares she owns?"

"Nothing at all."

But Angela was wrong. An hour later, Lauren Mallory, Jessica Stanley, and a troupe of ballerinas ran giggling into the room, bottles of sherry hidden under their dresses.

"Where _were_ you?" Jessica asked us while cheerily gathering the bottles onto her bed. "You missed the most terrible scene."

"What happened?"

Jessica beamed and popped open a bottle. "Rosalie walked up to Monsieur Lee and asked for a horse (You know the one. Brown spots, white nose)," - Angela threw me a smug look - "but he refused. Then she outright demanded that he comply, and _he_ _refused again._"

"Apparently the only thing Monsieur Lee loves more than women is money," interrupted a laughing voice as Jessica took a long swig of alcohol. "Tell them what happened next, Jess."

"I don't know who started it," Jessica continued, "but pretty soon they were at each other's throat. She was cursing him in Italian, and he was swearing in English." Jessica pinched two fingers together. "They were this close to coming to blows, and no one understood a word that was spoken."

"You should have seen it, Bella," Bree chortled. "I've never seen Rosalie so disheveled. Her hair was flying everywhere and her face was so red that I couldn't tell where her lipstick ended and her face began. She looked like she had swallowed a chili pepper."

"Monsieur Lee wasn't so composed either," said Aimee from the far side of the room. "He was shaking so much, I was sure we'd have to call Dr. Cullen."

"Anyway," Jessica said quickly, glaring at the girls who had interrupted. "Anyway. Before a fight could break out, Rosalie just stormed off yelling, 'So long as these two asses are here, I will not be singing!'"

"_Mon Dieu," _Angela muttered. "Does this mean...?"

Lauren nodded. "Rosalie Hale is history."

Cheers broke out, Aimee and Marie began dancing, and the three Pontellier sisters started singing a funeral march that grew so fast in tempo, it ended up being quite merry.

Lauren jumped onto a bed and raised the bottle high. She shouted dramatically, "This time tomorrow, we will have a new Leading Lady!"

Then we partied like tomorrow wouldn't come.

* * *

There is a reason why excessive drinking is not advisable when living in an opera house. Waking up to a woman yelling "_Réveillez-vous!" _louder than a banshee, and walking down into a den of cacophony with a hangover is comparable to hammering nails into your own skull, but I was used to it.

The only ones who seemed pleasant were Angela, who generally abstained from alcohol, and Lauren, who had planned this whole shenanigan to give her a leg up in the climb to fame.

The managers had not announced Rosalie's dismissal and had not promised to choose a new leading lady from among the existing cast, but they might as well have. It was a war zone. Faces were painted for battle, satin armor was donned, and it didn't matter that none of us could think without pain; every woman was turning on the charm.

I scowled at Aimee with her low cut dress and coquettish giggles.

"Charlatan," I said glowering at her.

"What? It's not cheating," she said, winking. "You could have dressed up too."

But I couldn't have, and that was why I was so irritated. Low-cut tops and elegant up-dos were all well and good, if one wasn't constantly blushing, stuttering, and desperately pulling the cloth up every few minutes.

I would have to use different means to capture the managers' attention. And I would have to act quickly before my competitors could think effectively enough to begin putting their plans into motion. Already I could see the telltale signs of cunning plots: smug looks, jittery nerves, and the tearful eyes of crushed dreams.

"Here." Aimee placed a steaming cup in front of me.

The contents were black and thick like sludge. When I tried to stir it, it made a strange sound like the spoon was being eaten. "Oh my god. Is this _tar?_"

"It's coffee... among other things. It'll clear your head up in no time. Drink it quickly. Angela's coming over."

I race to choke down the contents of the mug. Angela had never approved of my nightly indulgence, and I would never be able to explain without exposing details I wanted buried.

Really, all I had wanted was a good night's sleep.

"Good girl," Aimee said cheerily when I slammed the cup back down.

"I hate you," I manage between coughs. She merely laughed and took her leave.

"Good morning, Bella," said Angela, yawning behind me.

I moved over so Angela could sit beside me. "Is there a reason you're up so early?"

Angela grinned. "I wouldn't miss this for the world," she said, gesturing to the sickly, courtesan-looking women around us.

"Have you joined the battle, as well, Angela?" I asked, frantically chewing on a croissant to erase the awful aftertaste of the coffee.

"Oh no," she said waving her hand in dismissal. "Not yet, at least. I'm not ready. But nothing this amusing has happened since Lauren's hair turned white."

"You mean, 'since I slipped bleach into her hair wash,'" I corrected. "You aren't nearly as nice as you seem, Ange."

"She called my mother a baboon. What was I supposed to do?" Angela sniffed, unhappy to have lost the moral high ground. "I was going to help you," she said, "but it appears you don't want it."

"I never said she didn't deserve it," I laughed. "Please. I need your help."

"Good, because I need to share some information with you before I explode with the pressure of holding it in."

I glanced around to make sure no one was listening, and leaned in toward Angela. "What is it?"

"The Phantom is back," she whispered anxiously.

I blinked and sat back, eyeing Angela with a skeptical look. I had occasionally heard stories about the Opera Ghost - we all had. It was the most infamous of our legends, and was told only on the most miserable of nights.

"_Like yellow parchment is his skin. A great black hole served as the nose that never grew. You must be always on your guard, or he will catch you with his magical lasso!"_

Of course, it was only folklore. The stories were based around a few ghastly murders and money laundering that had occurred before I ever even knew this Opera existed. The criminal hadn't been caught, but the crimes had stopped, and a toe hasn't been out of line since, so everyone stopped worrying.

"That's not funny," I said finally, turning back to my breakfast.

"I'm not joking," Angela said gravely. "A letter came for M. Newton last night. The Phantom wants to be paid _twenty-thousand francs each month_."

I looked at her completely flabbergasted. "They can't possibly afford that."

"Mama says that's the salary M. Greene paid him."

"M. Greene was enabling a criminal?" I pushed my food away, suddenly not so hungry.

"It was more like blackmail," said Angela sighing. "Why do you think there hasn't been any more crime?"

"But how is this supposed to help me?" I asked unhappily. "I doubt there's anything I can do."

"You're wrong. I think it's a scam, Bella," said Angela, lowering her voice, "and M. Newton is in an uproar. You can offer to help."

"I don't want to get involved," I said, standing. "Even if it is a scam."

Not two hours later, I got myself involved. It was inevitable, really. I was too desperate to just sit back and watch as another woman took my rightful place in the spotlight.

I had walked straight up to Michael Newton and, after some awkward negotiations, struck a deal. He agreed to give me a chance on stage if I would keep an ear out for any suspicious gossip, snoop around, and show the new sponsor the building. M. Newton, it appeared, couldn't take any more stress.

"And I refuse to give you a raise!" He called out as I went to watch for the sponsor's arrival.

I can't deny I was more than little curious. I imagined him arriving in an elaborate golden carriage with black velvet seats and drawn by four handsome white horses. I pictured the coachman shouting at the crowds and fighting traffic with more authority than he possessed, and rolling out a red carpet so his employer wouldn't have to touch the dirty ground.

I was so enamored with my illusion, that I missed the real person.

"Wait!" I cried after the lone horseman, "Wait!" I ran after him, my rushed footsteps grabbing his attention more effectively than my voice.

He pulled back on the reins, allowing me the first glimpse of my first love. His shirt and face was splattered with mud, his silky hair matted and windblown, his tanned hands gripped his horse for dear life, and his handsome face was set in an expression of an irritated and confused dog.

"Are you the new sponsor?" I asked him when I came close enough to speak without yelling, though I already knew the answer. He did not look wealthy. His clothes were of good quality, but obviously well worn, he hadn't a companion or servant to accompany him, and his horse was strong, but definitely not thoroughbred. And of course it was nearly impossible for him to make any sort of substantial profit in his homeland with his copper skin and long, ebony hair.

I didn't have to ask what had brought him here. My father had known many tribesmen, and was the only one I knew who treated them well.

In the later years of his life, Papa and the Quileute Chief had been good friends. My mother had gone missing around the time Mrs. Black had passed, and they took comfort in each other.

Of course, tribal men and those associated with them weren't looked upon with great respect at that time. After much scandal and strife, Papa was impeached as sheriff, and stricter segregation was enforced. We fled to France after that. I suspect he thought mother might be found here.

Billy Black would come over and have a smoke with my father sometimes when they thought I was asleep. I would inhale the heady odor of tobacco as it wafted up into my room, and listen to their low voices talk about things that I didn't understand. They never failed to leave me with something to think about.

On one memorable night, Papa and William Black were discussing the fire that had consumed the Quileute schoolhouse that day. Everyone knew about it. A thick, black column of smoke had pushed its way into the sky, acting as a bleak beacon for miles around.

It had been a great tragedy. Nothing but ashes remained of the building. I remember crying inconsolably when I heard little Seth Clearwater had been caught in it. He survived, but was scarred beyond recognition.

"Do you know who did it?"

"I have my suspicions."

I started crying again, because I had thought it was only a terrible accident.

I didn't blame this dirty, beautiful boy for leaving.

"Are you our new sponsor," I asked, this time in English. He seemed pleasantly surprised to hear a language he understood.

"No. That's my employer," he said, his voice deep and guttural. "He got held up in business. Sent me ahead to buy the apartment."

He jumped off his horse and brushed his hands on his trousers. "I'm Jacob Black," he said, sticking his hand out for a handshake.

"Isabella Swan," I said, taking it. "Let me lead you to the stables."

We made small talk for a while, and it turned out that they weren't staying in the opera dormitories or suites - they had their own lodgings - but they would be using the stalls and presumably be spending a large amount of time at the opera, so they needed to be familiar with it.

Jacob gave me the feeling that he would not leave his home very often.

It was quiet and I could feel his quizzical stare on the back of my neck. As we rounded to the back of the house, he spoke again. "_Swan_... Are you related to Charles Swan, by any chance?"

"I'm his daughter."

"My father, William Black, was a good friend of his."

"I thought you looked familiar," I said, grinning broadly. "You resemble him. It's nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise."

I showed him the empty stables reserved for him and his employer, introduced him to the stable boys, and gave him a quick tour of the stables. It was much larger than I had once thought, but we had willing hands to help us, and Jacob was quick to learn.

"Would you like to see inside?" I asked once we stepped out into the fresh air.

"No," he said quickly, forcefully. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "I heard it is haunted," he explained lamely.

"Of course not," I said, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. "It's simply legend."

His gaze turned scrutinizing. "You're lying."

"No," I said, just as forcibly. "You're just overly superstitious."

"If you were me," he said quietly, "you, too, would be ready to believe almost anything."

"Do you believe in angels?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"No," he said.

My heart dropped a fraction. For some reason I felt like I could talk to this person, that he would understand. It was easier to talk to a stranger, after all. Who cares if he thinks I'm crazy?

"Why?" He asked after he noticed the uncomfortable silence.

I forced a smile and batted my eyes innocently. "Because there is one right in front of you, willing to teach French to an uncultured American."

He laughed.

Later that night, as once again I failed to sleep, I thought about my near confession.

What would I be doing now, I wondered, if he had said "yes"? Would I be sleeping soundly for the first time? Would I stop avoiding shadows, and stop looking over my shoulder? I could only imagine the blissful weightlessness I would feel if I were to free myself of… whatever this was.

But I knew that was only wishful thinking. Even if Jacob had believed me, even if he had taken me under his wing, even if we had hatched the perfect plan, I would be lying awake with strained ears and dry eyes, as I was now.

I knew, no matter whom I went to for help that the moment I closed my eyes, _he _would be with me.

It was lovely at first. It seemed as though my father was back. He came to me in my dreams, and I would find myself surrounded by music and his secretive smiles. When I awoke, I could never remember his face, just his devilish beauty.

Before he had died, Papa had promised to send down the Angel of Music to guide and comfort me. "That's how you will know I'm safely in heaven," he had said, then he made me swear, no matter what, to find happiness.

Which was a futile promise, really.

It didn't take long for my dreams of love to turn into nightmares. I would be looking at myself in the gilded mirror in Rosalie's dressing room, and then somehow I would find myself in a cavern deep underground. He would tell me to sing louder, louder to drown out the screaming. He would tell me not to be frightened even as a cold hand gripped my wrist, and the hem of my dress was stained with blood.

I would wake up, gasping, soaked with sweat. I would see the bruises on my wrist and my bloodstained dress, and I would shake Angela awake and ask hysterically if she had heard me get out of bed.

"You woke me up several times, Bella. You were thrusting and moaning, but you never left your bed."

I never mentioned it again, because despite the cold grip my heart, I refused to lose another home.

But strange things kept happening, and I seemed to be the only one who noticed anything suspicious. People quit unannounced, never to be seen again; fixings on the ceilings were tampered with, nearly crushing a few stagehands; animals were attacked by some rabid animal; and everywhere I went, I swear I could feel him staring.

So lately, I took to drinking myself into an uneasy slumber, because I never could be sure that these attacks weren't caused by _me_.


End file.
